birch bark scrolls
wait in the soul grove,
anticipating a tug
on their tender newsstand.
peeling layers
of ancient wisdom,
shining bright,
forever young,
stories hidden
under the curls
meticulously penned
from a muddy pool
on a loaned plume.
sonnets haphazardly scratched
on a bumpy nub,
elegance awakened.
freckled parchment flutters,
branches unfurl,
dancing and bowing,
slender limbs reaching,
at something
beyond the tips
as roots beneath
mirror new depth.

– Jean Detjen